


The Serious Work of the World

by anathemagerminabunt



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Arguing, Case Fic, Kinda Kinky, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:36:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anathemagerminabunt/pseuds/anathemagerminabunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns from a case in his usual state. John, upset at being left behind yet again, requires a little more acknowledgement before he'll lend a helping hand. Pretty much PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Serious Work of the World

**Author's Note:**

> _All who think cannot but see there is a sanction like that of religion which binds us in partnership in the serious work of the world. -Benjamin Franklin_

John's been lightly dozing in his armchair for the past twenty minutes, contemplating turning the telly off and heading upstairs, when Sherlock bursts into the sitting room, door banging open against the wall.

“There you are,” he announces, removing his coat and scarf in a flurry of activity. “Good, you're still awake. You always get so put out when I wake you.”

“What... Sherlock?” John sits up, blearily peering around the room. “Are you just getting back now? What time is it?” He glances at his watch, resisting the urge to let out a low whistle. “Where have you been?”

“Out. I solved the case, John.”

John blinks. “Which case? Our case? You solved our case?”

“Don't make me repeat myself, John. You know how tedious I find redundancy.” Sherlock gracefully bends in half, quickly untying his shoes and slipping them off, leaving them where they fall. “Yes, _our_ case. The second victim murdered the first, that much we knew. But it was the _father_ of the first that--”

“You didn't, ah, you didn't need my help?” John interrupts, hating the flash of jealousy that flares beneath his chest.

“Of course not. Listen, it was the _father_ that killed the second victim.” Stalking ever closer, a twisted sort of grin spreading across his expression, Sherlock stops directly before John. “With the screwdriver.”

“A screwdriver. Of course.”

Sherlock frowns, brow knitting. “John, maybe you didn't understand me. I _solved the case_.”

“Bully for you,” John mutters. He reaches for the remote, turning the television off and plunging them into darkness. Stirring, eyes not meeting the other man's, he adds, “I'm for bed. You can brag all about it in the morning.” It takes a little work to stand and step past Sherlock, but he manages.

“You're angry.”

John sighs, stopping just short of the doorway. “Of course I'm not mad. You solved the case. Good, that's very good. I'm just... tired.”

“And now you're lying to me.” Sherlock takes a tentative step forward. “Why are you lying to me?”

John pauses, refusing to turn around. “You didn't think I'd want to come with, Sherlock? That I couldn't have helped or at least, god forbid, make sure you didn't nearly get yourself killed again?”

Waving this off, Sherlock tells him, “It was a trifle. There was absolutely no danger, I just needed to see--”

“Yeah. Yeah, well, good. I'll see you in the morning.” Running a hand over his face, contemplating the long trek up the stairs to his cold bed, John sighs.

“Wait!” As usual, Sherlock is blocking him before John's even aware that the man has moved, one hand resting on his chest. “Don't. I... I should have offered to let you come. I'm aware of that now.”

“ _Offered_ to-- yeah, alright, whatever. Just get out of the way, Sherlock.”

“No.”

John stares, narrowing his eyes. Voice low, he hisses, “ _No?_ ”

Sherlock is unfazed. “No. Not while you're angry with me. I don't understand. I apologised--”

“In what universe was that an apology?”

“--and I'm willing to take you into consideration in the future. I solved the case, John! Usually by now you're fully deep in--”

“Yes, yes, alright!” John cuts in, raising his voice. “We're supposed to be a team, Sherlock, and we're supposed to do these things together. I don't care how dangerous _or_ tedious it is. I'm tired of being left at home while you race off around the city, completely forgetting that I even exist. You don't _offer_ to let a partner help you, damn it, it's a given. I thought we were-- I thought-- forget it.” Sidestepping Sherlock, he gets halfway into the hall before a hand on his bicep stops him. “Sherlock, I'm serious. Let me go. I am not in the mood for this.”

“John, I--” He swallows hard, averting his eyes. “I'm sorry. You're right. That was inconsiderate of me. I'll try to be less solitary in my work next time. Don't-- don't be upset with me.”

Closing his eyes briefly, John mentally curses the man six ways to Sunday. Once he's sure that he's not going to start screaming, he opens his eyes and says, “Yeah. Okay, yeah. That's... that's something.”

“You're not mad, still?”

He sighs. “Less so.”

“Good.” Sherlock drops his hand. “That's good. Can we have sex now?”

Barking out a laugh, John shakes his head and mutters, “Oh god. Oh god, this is my life now, isn't it? We argue and you want to fuck.”

With an expression that can only be called pouting, Sherlock stresses, “John. I _solved the case_. Solved it. The father--”

“Yes, yes, the father killed the second victim, I heard you.” John shoots him a fond look. “I almost forgot how randy you get after a case. Almost.” With a deep sigh, he nods, turning on his heel and making for the kitchen. “Alright, fine. C'mon.”

“No, wait.” Sherlock shoots a hand out, glancing around the room with blazing eyes. “Here. Right here is good.”

John's more than half-sure that he must have misheard him. “You want to have sex... on the sitting room floor?”

“Or the sofa. I'm not adverse to the sofa.”

“Oh good god...”

“John. _Please_.” Sherlock watches him, lightly licking his lips and pinning him in place with a heated look.

“Christ, you know I can't...” Waving his arms, John caves. “Fine, we'll do it here.”

“Excellent.” One hand deftly flying over the buttons of his shirt, he reaches for John with the other, tugging him closer. “Take off your trousers.”

John guides his hand to the back of Sherlock's head, tangling his fingers in the curls. “You know, most people like a little build-up to the main action.” He pulls them together for a deep, bruising kiss, nipping lightly along Sherlock's lower lip.

“Yes?” Sherlock replies, undoing the last button and letting his shirt fall from his shoulders to tangle around his elbows. “I solved the case.”

“Only you would think that was foreplay.” Without waiting for a response, John dives back in for another kiss, equally as demanding and hard. It takes a little work to pull Sherlock free from his shirt, tossing the article onto the floor and walking them backward toward the nearest wall without breaking apart. Once he has Sherlock pinned, he manages to pull away long enough to lift his jumper and shirt over his head, letting them join Sherlock's shirt.

“You like that I'm not as plebeian as normal people,” Sherlock points out, a hint of breathlessness creeping into his voice. He yanks John by the waist until their bare torsos are pressed together, closing his eyes momentarily. “It turns you on.”

“Yeah, well,” John mumbles as he busies his mouth against the long, white arch of Sherlock's neck, “you're not supposed to know that.”

“You should-- ah-- you should be less obvious, then.” He tosses his head back, hitting it on the wall with a soft _thunk_ , hands roaming over every inch of John's torso.

John rolls his eyes, guiding his lips down over Sherlock's shoulder and chest to rest at a nipple, teasing it relentlessly. He spends a few minutes like this, Sherlock's hands growing more and more frantic in their movements, before moving on to the other one.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock manages, strained. “John--”

“Yes, alright,” John murmurs against his flushed skin. “I'm getting to it.” He snakes a hand between them, groping the growing bulge pressed against his thigh for a moment or two before bringing his hand to the zipper of Sherlock's trousers. It's quick work to open them and slip inside, teasing a broken gasp from the man. With a smirk, he asks, “Like that, do you?”

“Y-you know I do, John.” It's amazing how even now, half-undressed and with a hand wrapped around his cock, Sherlock manages to keep a note of disdain in his tone. “John, _get on with it._ ”

John bites back the urge to gloat and instead pushes those damnably expensive trousers and pants down past Sherlock's hips to rest somewhere in the vicinity of his calves. Inhaling sharply, he takes a few seconds to admire the view before stroking his hand upward and back down at a maddeningly slow pace. The impatient need that lines Sherlock's face is more than worth the communal teasing.

“Don't--”

“Yes?” John languidly asks, keeping his hand at its aching speed. “Did you need something?”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock growls, eyes narrowed and mostly focused. “I swear it, John, if you don't hurry it along I'm going to bring home five-eighths of a corpse and store it in your bed, _after_ I've eaten all the jam.”

John stops. Dropping his voice to a dangerously low pitch (which, conveniently, also has the effect of leaving Sherlock panting and twitching), he snarls, “You wouldn't dare.” All the same, he speeds up his strokes-- better to not risk it where jam is concerned.

“I would and you-- oh!” Sherlock chokes back a groan, shaking as John flicks a thumb over the tip of his cock. “Oh, yes, like that, that's--” He's squirming, thrashing against the wall, hips mindlessly pistoning forward. “Oh Christ, John, want--”

“Yes?” John manages, unsteady and gasping at the spectacle before him. His own jeans are growing perilously tight, but he puts that from his mind for the time being. “What is it you want?”

“P-penetrate me, now, do it n-- _ah!_ ”

John leans forward, pressing his lips to the shell of Sherlock's ear. “What's that? Say it, come on...”

“John--”

“ _Say it_ ,” he growls, biting Sherlock's earlobe.

“F-fuck me, please, _John._ ”

John groans, ripping away from the other man with a deep reluctance. One hand working on stripping himself of his trousers and pants, he glances around the room frantically. “We need--”

“There's lubricant in the sofa from the last time,” Sherlock tells him. He's panting, gripping the wall and biting his lip. “Just--”

“On the floor,” John orders, stepping over to dig through the furniture for the small bottle of lube. “Hands and knees. Unless...”

“No, hands and knees are fine,” Sherlock tells him. He slumps down the wall, taking a moment to kick off the rest of his clothing before crawling a few feet toward John.

“What have I said about keeping sex aids in public areas?”

Huffing out a breath of air, Sherlock wriggles into position. “Stop complaining. It's saving you a trip upstairs, isn't it?”

“Yeah, but if Mrs. Hudson--”

“John,” Sherlock sharply interrupts, “if you want to do this, I'm going to need you to stop mentioning Mrs. Hudson and _bloody get over here_.”

John grins. “I love it when you're gagging for it.” He ignores Sherlock's little 'harrumph' of a response, instead striding toward the man and carefully dropping to his knees. Making a face at the state of the cap and dispenser of the bottle, he wastes no time in coating his left hand until it's sufficiently slick. “Ready?”

“For god's sake, I've _been_ read-- _oh._ ”

It takes little effort to slip the first finger into Sherlock, though the willpower required of John to remain calm and in control is staggering. He closes his eyes at that first deep push to the third knuckle, desperately trying to ignore how hot and tight everything feels. Instead, he pulls his finger out almost the entire way before pressing back in and spends a few minutes repeating the action until he feels Sherlock is ready for a second.

“Oh, that--” Sherlock swallows hard.

“Christ,” John grits out, teeth clenched. “You should see yourself.” He carefully adds a third finger, groaning at the way Sherlock's breath hitches. “You have no idea, do you? Absolutely no idea how irresistible you are.”

“I have some-- _ah_ \-- some i-idea. You never resist me for lo-- _oooh_.”

After a few minutes, John finds himself gasping, “Now? Oh god, please say now.” At the slightest inclination of Sherlock's head he moans and pulls away, groping for his jeans to dig a condom out of his wallet. John's careful when he slides it on and slicks himself up, the mere touch of his own hand almost enough to set him off after a build up like this, but in no time at all he's grasping Sherlock by the hips and lining his cock up. He hesitates. “Tell me about the case.”

“What?” Sherlock whips his head around to stare at John with wide, dilated eyes. “The case?”

John presses forward just a millimetre. “You said you solved it. Tell me about the case.”

“Oh, god, John. You--” Sherlock groans wantonly, dropping his head and gasping harshly for breath. “It, uh. It was the blood splatter in the study that-- _ah!_ ” Here, John pushes in, so slowly as to almost remain still. “ _John._ ”

“I didn't,” John tells him, fingers digging into porcelain skin hard enough to leave a mark, “say to stop. The blood splatter?”

Sherlock cries out, desperately trying to press backward. “Hmm? Oh, yes, the blood splatter. I-it alerted me to the fact that the second victim h-had to, oh, to be the murderer of the-- oh good god, more, please more-- of the first. The height, build, and motive were all-- _oh god, yes_.”

John shudders once he's fully sheathed, pulling back and slamming into Sherlock with one quick thrust. “Good. That's very good. What else?” He resumes a punishingly glacial pace.

“What? John, please, I need--”

“What. Else.”

Sherlock trembles. “After t-the recovery of the second-- oh god, right there, like that, yes, right like that-- s-second victim, the f-feather found in his pocket g-g-gave me pause, but-- _oh, yes, yes_.”

“But?” John prompts with an unsteady voice, speeding up each thrust incrementally.

“It occurred to me that it was from a bird native o-only to the conti-continent,” Sherlock shouts, slamming backward and arching his back as this drives John across his prostate over and over again. “I went to speak to a ornithologist acqua-acquaintance tonight and he confirmed. Since the v-v-victim hasn't left the country in three years, I knew that it had to be the father seeking vengeance for the death of his d-daughter.”

“Oh, fuck,” John groans, pounding into Sherlock. “Oh, good god, do you have any idea how _hot_ you are? You're brilliant, you're amazing, you're stunning, you're-- _oh, fuck, oh shit_.”

Sherlock shudders, shifting his weight in order to bring a hand to his cock. Stripping his shaft quickly, he lets out a strangled yell before clenching and tightening around John, coming hard and fast. “ _John!_ ”

It's almost too much, the knowledge that Sherlock is climaxing right beneath and around him, and the feeling of that tight, velvety heat squeezing his cock for all it's worth. John lasts for a few more thrusts, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's waist in a desperate effort to keep him upright for a few minutes more. When he finally comes, it's with a shout, pleasure wracking his body, every limb trembling with the sheer force of it.

They remain silent for the next five minutes, motionless except for John slowly pulling out and removing the condom, tossing it toward the nearest bin.

“Oh god, that was filthy,” John pants, dropping an arm over his eyes as he collapses onto the carpet.

“You liked it.”

“Yes,” he admits.

“I liked it too.”

John smiles. “Good. I'm glad to hear it.” He glances over at his... his Sherlock, smiling at the dazed and wide-eyed look on his face. He loves this more than anything, the moments of blissful silence as they both recover in the afterglow.

Of course, it can only ever last so long when it comes to Sherlock.

“John,” he says suddenly, leaning over. “John, have I ever told you about the case I solved concerning the politician, the lighthouse, and the trained cormorant? No? Would you like me to?”

To his credit, John simply laughs.


End file.
